


Flowers Blooming in Azkaban

by Darkravenwrote



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Auror Harry Potter, Azkaban, M/M, Prison, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 13:26:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4523769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/pseuds/Darkravenwrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years.  Harry has waited for five years.  And finally, today is the day.</p>
<p>“Prisoner MDA9052 has requested an audience, sir."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Written for HDCliche '15.  Cliches: Azkaban!fic, prisoner!fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers Blooming in Azkaban

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to A for beta'ing. This one was a bit rushed and I hope it doesn't read that way. It's a lot more lighthearted than you'd expect from a prison fic. But there are hints if you squint of a not good world outside and elsewhere.
> 
> Anyway, there wasn't a specific prompt.
> 
> Enjoy.

Harry is watering his in-office garden when Conrad Hopespatter barges through the door.

“Prisoner MDA9052 has requested an audience, sir,” he shouts across the two metre space between them. Harry’s eardrums ring with the echo. In retaliation, Harry double checks his petunias are bobbing happily in the sun, and his pansies are shrugging snugly amongst themselves - they all seem quite content - before he deigns to acknowledge his presence.

“Has he now,” he states, pretending he is only half paying attention while he rifles through his desk for the most recent overview files of the higher floors prisoners. “How many times is that so far this week, Conrad?”

“Err, nine, I think, sir.” It’s comical, really, how suddenly Hopespatter is so unsure. He is a stout man made entirely of bravado and buoyed by the steam he is running off of from is latest promotion to Harry’s upper floor manager - a decision he is now thinking of seriously revising. The second he is questioned by an authority figure - or someone the slightest bit imposing, i.e. basically the entirety of Azkaban - he shrivels down to the mental age of a scolded school boy.

“Persistent as ever I see. Shall we see what it is he wants then?” And as much as Harry likes toying with him - there are very few pleasures to be found in this place - he isn’t in the mood today. And if MDA9052 wants something, it’s usually best to accommodate him. Harry can already feel his stomach jumping. “Bring him up.”

“Now, sir?”

“I’ve got a slow half hour,” - lie - “before my firecall with the Deputy Minister,” - which he took earlier that morning. “Besides, I’m relatively confident if we leave him to simmer into the double digits he’ll cause some sort of riot that, quite frankly, I don’t want to deal with on a Friday afternoon.” That is quite accurate, though.

“Right you are, sir,” Hopespatter nods decisively, because taking orders is simple when you’re intimidated, Harry has suspected it is his default survival instinct for some time now.

Harry sighs, flips MDA9052’s personal file open, then closed, and turns back to his petunias - because the definition of ‘sun’ out here is questionable.

 

* * *

 

“Prisoner MDA9052 is in the holding area, sir,” Hopespatter throws open his door and bellows through without bothering to clomp in - a trip down to collect a prisoner is apparently sufficient time to put some hot air back in his sails.

“Bring him in would you.” It’s not a question so much as a softly toned order. Hopespatter needs to be gone, and this is a golden opportunity for Harry to burst a few of his bubbles. “Then can you go and help Vidi with the cell checks, please; he must be on the third floor by now and you know how KTH9047 can be.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry would guess he says it through teeth that are grinding, but, as Hopespatter wasn’t polite enough to stick his head through the door to address his superior, Harry can’t be sure.

When he glances back, Harry’s pansies are sassing back at him approvingly.

 

* * *

 

“Do you give the inmates anything they want if they badger you enough?” Malfoy swans in in much the same way he used to swan around Hogwarts - that is to say, nose in the air and with an opinion of himself so high it practically makes his hair glow.

“What can I do for you, MDA9052?” Harry asks, eyes flicking meaningfully to the ministry recording charm glinting from his bookcase; it’s green at the moment, only audio, but at any second it could spark to life - a threatening red.

“It’s just, if that’s the case, can I have a Hippogriff and a thick coat tomorrow instead of breakfast?” Malfoy keeps the cheeky lilt in his voice and lets a titter of laughter through - the strained, nervous sort that a lot of prisoners think is some kind magic on their guards - but his eyes dart around the office and he nods gravely as he shuts the door behind himself.

“Fortunately for me, not all inmates are so keen to take the piss. Request denied,” Harry says with his serious, bossman tone, snapping Malfoy’s file open and closed again for the decisive sound. “Although I don’t see what good a Hippogriff would do you, except a trip to the infirmary and a whining howler to the first floor.”

Malfoy looks stunned that he would stoop so low for a moment. The first floor is where the most notorious and high risk inmates are housed. Security is so tight they don’t receive post, but Harry can’t pass up a nostalgic jibe like that.

“That was unnecessarily harsh.” Malfoy feigns hurt, a melodramatic hand tapping lightly at his chest. A smile curls at his mouth though and that let’s Harry know he remembers their old, comfortable conversations. How they were before...this happened.

“You think so?” He lets himself flash one grin at Malfoy, before lowering his head like he’s running into a headwind, and getting down to business. “Anyway, for what purpose are you gracing me with your presence? If this is about the fluffiness of your pillow again, I swear on Circe’s lost grave it won’t be the only one that’s destined never to be found.”

“To business then. I’d like to complain about the bacon,” Malfoy says in all seriousness, face straight.

“The what?” Because, what?

“The bacon? At breakfast this morning.”

“What the bloody hell about it?”

“It was salty.”

“You are joking.”

“Absolutely not, this is a serious time, jokes would be _most_ inappropriate.”

“Get out, Malfoy.” And this one _is_ an order. He shoos him along with a hand to make sure the message is clear enough too.

“Well, there’s no need to snap.” Malfoy sniffs dejectedly before his gaze redirects into the middle distance behind Harry, and he says ever so casually, “By the way, your petunias are wilting.”

Harry’s heart lurches up, thumping on the back of his tied tongue. Is that? He’s been waiting for so long, and Malfoy has come to visit him so many times over the many years they’ve been trapped here, that he had given up hope of this day coming. Of Malfoy saying those words.

It is an old joke between them, reminiscent of people they dislike from their pasts. But more than that; it is a code phrase. And now, Harry has to...

“It’s just the pansies being selfish,” he breathes into the silence, chest heavy.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re late. I thought-” Harry hisses as the iron gate clangs gently in the quiet night behind him. He doesn’t check it’s Malfoy - if it isn’t his cover is screwed anyway. But Malfoy’s cool voice cuts him off before he can say more.

“Thought what? That I’d got too attached to the five by four cell I share with a roommate who wants to flay me but, from all I’ve been able to deduce, likes to watch me piss?” Merlin, he has missed his dry humour.

“I thought they might have figured us out.” Harry tries to smirk it off, but that’s more Draco’s forte. Judging by the fond, exasperated way Malfoy flicks at his windswept hair, he is pulling off a perfect pout.

“You’re so sensitive, Potter,” he murmurs into Harry’s ear, going for a full out ruffle now. “Calm down. As evidenced by my neatly stolen guard’s uniform being soaked through and my chattering teeth, even though the odds of this sodding plan ever actually working were minimal at best, I am here.” He brandishes a hand at himself, and his eyebrows are telling Harry he is distinctly impressed with himself. He does look a little damp though, and while his teeth aren’t chattering there is water dripping from his pointed nose.

“Oh, stop smart-arsing,” Harry moans, because he can’t very well show how much he’s worried - that’s not how they work - despite the fact that he’d very much like to peck Malfoy right on one soggy cheek right now. But that will have to wait, they are breaking out of Azka-bloody-ban prison, after all. Priorities. “Let’s get out of here. Kingsley arranged everything as soon as I sent the sign.” Which makes Harry wonder how the ministry would feel about their own charms aiding the Order against the law. “We’re working extraction plan seven.”

“That makes no difference to me; this is your department, I was never informed, but I assume my chariot awaits?” Malfoy glances around expectantly.

“Buckbeak’s waiting behind that turret,” Harry answers, trying his best not to let his mouth quiver.

“Excuse me? I was sodding joking about the Hippogriff thing earlier.” Harry’s only reasonable option is to roll his eyes at that, turning his back to stroll towards one of the many turrets around them. “Potter! Potter!?” Malfoy yowls behind him.

“Don’t be such a pansy, Malfoy.” And, oh Circe, how precious. Malfoy thinks he’s being serious. “Oh for...I was joking too. I’ve got a portkey.”

“Oh, well. Why didn’t you say so?”

“I haven’t been able to tease you in five years. I’ve missed it,” Harry allows himself this small confession.

“Where’s this portkey then? Your hair’s looking more miserable than usual, and I’m not sure my nipples can hold on much longer.”


End file.
